One by one the weeks had passed. It was November now, and very cold.
Outdoors a dull gray sky and a dull brown earth combined into a dismal
hopelessness. Indoors the dull monotony of a two-months-old quarrel and
a growing heartache made a combination that carried even less of cheer.
Huldah never hummed now, and Cyrus seldom whistled; yet neither was one
whit nearer speaking. Each saw this, and, curiously enough, was pleased.
In fact, it was just here that, in spite of the heartache, each found an
odd satisfaction.
"By sugar--but she's a spunky one!" Cyrus would chuckle admiringly, as
he discovered some new evidence of his wife's shrewdness in obtaining
what she wanted with yet no spoken word.
"There isn't another man in town who could do it--and stick to it!"
exulted Huldah proudly, her eyes on her husband's form, bent over his
egg-frying at the other side of the room.
Not only the cause of the quarrel, but almost the quarrel itself, had
now long since been forgotten; in fact, to both Cyrus and his wife it
had come to be a sort of game in which each player watched the other's
progress with fully as much interest as he did his own. And yet, with it
all there was the heartache; for the question came to them at times with
sickening force--just when and how could it possibly end?
It was at about this time that each began to worry about the other.
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